Death in the Folly
by gotgoats
Summary: Total nonsense written in a rambling, hilarious cracky way. Complete AU. Tony isn't part of the team...he's Death's apprentice. Contains slight spoilers for some earlier episodes, I sort of mashed them together in a funny, strange way. Very, very tongue in cheek. NOT slash!


Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS, but I do own an active imagination, too much time, and some pretty bizarre dreams. This little tale is set in a fantastical world where not much makes sense. Have you read Terry Pratchett? Then you'll get the humor.

Note: Thanks to my fantastic beta, Headbanger Rockstar, who sat through laughing at me while I rambled on and one while writing this. May you enjoy it! And yes, this story is a completely different style than my usual one, but I hope you find it enjoyable.

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In the world of crime, no one knows exactly when it began, but it is rumored, and some would say truthfully said, that murder and mayhem began long ago with two brothers. While that can never be unequivocally proven, it is a good start to our tale.

To view the happenstance of crime so smoothly, however, we need to peer into the eyes of those who do naughty things, as well as those who attempt to catch those very people. In many cases, there does not seem to be a large difference in them, however, there is a seeming link between the ingestion of or abstaining from coffee and the need to commit murder.

It is in this world of murder, mayhem, and the occasional sasquatch, that our story truly begins. There is a city entirely comprised of thieves, villains, murders, extortionists, liars, and adulters. In a word: politicians. These crafty politicians have created a system of governance that enables them to continue on in their baddery while making them appear completely innocent. Or, at least they think it does. To those not living in the city, there are humorous sayings about the intelligence or physical attributes that do not bear retelling. However, as these simple politicians make the laws by which everyone lives, it is a sad state of affairs indeed.

However, it is not the politicians to whom our attention must currently be directed. No, indeed, it is to a caffeine-addled former Marine on whom we must gaze. (Pay no attention to the fact that he has a soldering iron heating his coffee. He is not as mentally deficient as that action would suggest.) Indeed, he is actually a man of brilliance. However, his brilliance stems from having once been a naughty, naughty man. He is the possessor of three divorce settlements, one hollow shell of a boat, a falling apart couch, a company car, and not much else.

"Gibbs." The aging man sat up and growled menacingly into his phone.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but we have another dead body."

"I'd hardly expect you to call me for a live one."

"No, Sir, I wouldn't."

"Don't call me Sir, I work for a living."

"Of course, Sir. Making a note to not call you sir." The hapless secretary took the note, and then popped her ever-present chewing gum bubble. "Would you like the address, then?"

"I need it to get to where I'm going."

"This is true, but I already called your second in command. I was wondering if you'd get it from him?"

"Why call me if you're expecting me to get it from him?"

"Very true." The girl popped another bubble. "Let me get it for you."

"You called, and you don't have the address?"

"No, I expected you to get it from your second in command."

"So why call, if I'm supposed to get everything from him?"

"I'm just doing my job." Her tone became nasty. "There's no need to get snippy. The man's already dead."

####

Timothy McGee was not what most would consider a handsome man. He was not athletic, nor well-spoken, nor extraordinarily polite. He was, however, the possessor of a very large brain. So large, in fact, that he often needed to quote his accomplishments in school and the work place, as his other pursuits had seemed to push the knowledge out of his head, which is an astonishing feat, given the veritable size and the unusually brilliant functions of his brain.

His partner, Kate, stood beside him as they waited for their boss to arrive. They did know how to process the scene before them, but had been informed of Gibbs' rather grouchy conversation, and thus decided to chance dual concussions and wait for their somewhat emotionally unstable leader.

"How do you think he got there?"

"I have no idea, Kate." Tim shook his head. "I doubt he was bird watching."

"Of course he wasn't bird watching." Kate rolled her eyes. "The tree isn't tall enough for him to fall from a height great enough to cause that sort of damage to the car. Perhaps, were we standing close to a cliff, that could be a reasonable answer."

"How so?

"Simple. Were he standing on the edge of a cliff, and fell, then he would be upside down, as he is now, and the height would allow for him to driven through the roof of the car, as he so obviously is."

"While this is true, we're not standing by a cliff, so your idea has no merit."

"I didn't say that was how the man died. I merely said that he could have died like that." Kate rolled her eyes.

"I say that if you two don't start working, and find better answers than falling from a cliff that isn't here, you're going to be out of jobs." Gibbs approached them, a glare silencing any protests.

"Good morning, Jethro." An even older gentleman, who was the possessor of a rather thick Scottish accent, received no doubt during his childhood living in the nation of his brogue, spoke with rather bright humor, which seemed to irritate his companion further. However, being a happy little chappy, the older gentleman smiled and ignored the grumbling aimed at him and launched into a tale of how he had seen a murder like this once long ago. It was apparently one of the reasons he'd decided to go into medicine. Entrails fascinated him, but the act of killing wasn't something he wanted, so he veered away from a life in politics and settled for being a doctor and medical examiner. He often told people that his happiness was found in knowing he'd extracted blood from people willingly. Many of his coworkers, on the other hand, would disagree with the "willingly" part of his boast.

Gibbs rolled his eyes like the emotionally petulant child he was, and opened the door to the car, hoping to help the medical examiner, Ducky, who was also the resident corpse-remover, to actually remove the corpse.

"I hope you're not taking him away already." A handsome, slightly bronzed-by-the-sun man sat in the front seat, seemingly unperturbed by the blood that dripped onto his shoulder. "I have always enjoyed these fancy automobiles with their leather interior, high-maintenance stereos, and glossy finishes."

"Who are you and what are you doing in this car?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." The man smiled pleasantly. "My name is Tony, and I'm filling in for Death this week. You see, I'm his assistant, but my job is somewhat short-term, as I'm mortal…"

Gibbs held up a hand to stop the young man's explanation.

"What did you say?"

"What do you need, Boss?"

"Not you, McGee! I'm talking to this joker!"

"What? Are you talking to bodies now?"

"No." Gibbs looked back to Tony, who shrugged. "I'm talking to him!" He pointed to the empty seat, or at least what Tim viewed as an empty seat.

"There's no one there, Boss."

"Yes, there is! I can see him!"

"How much coffee have you had today?" McGee backed up warily. "Have you had your full prescription? You know the doctor doesn't want you working without at least four cups in your system."

"I've taken my coffee, Timothy." The silver-haired man growled. "But there is someone sitting there. His name is Tony, and I can see him and hear him."

"There is no one there."

Tony smiled and sighed. He always loved this moment. A stray thought of what Death would do when he returned and discovered that Tony had allowed another mortal to see him, and that he'd caused another mostly-innocent by-stander to be incarcerated in a hospital for the looney, otherwise known as a 9-5 job that detailed restocking shelves in markets and returning to a small cell pleasantly called an "apartment", for which the monthly therapy price was exorbitant, made the young sprite pause, but another century secreted away on Death's extensive grounds was worth the punishment. He had just as much fun convincing the dead that they were alive. He hoped that the specter he worked for would not remove his time-continuum "rights", therefore leading to his own inevitable death. Tony found that he rather enjoyed existing out of time, as it gave him the ability to delight in newfound mischief on a nearly daily basis.

The tale of how he became Death's apprentice is a story that must wait, for while Death and his employees are in a vortex created by a shift in the 7th dimension, we humans sadly, are not, and to tell that story now would possibly drain time necessary for a shower, a load of dishes, or perhaps a non-fatal heart-attack.

"We're back to me asking you why you're here." Gibbs glared at the man who was supposedly not there.

"Oh, I'm here just to make your life interesting."

"Trying to tell me something?"

"Only that you're boring, and your daily coffee intake should be limited a bit. Perhaps you should try some Prozac. I hear it works wonders. One of my recent…"

"Not interested in dead guys, unless it's this one."

"You're no fun."

"No, I'm focused."

"Which means you're no fun." Tony winked. "But come, let me show you a few little things. Perhaps by showing you some things, I can be out of trouble with my boss."

"What's your interest in this?"

"My interest?" Tony looked affronted. "Who said I had an interest in this?" Gibbs looked at Tony as stupidly as he suspected the younger looking man thought he was. "My interest." Tony sighed. "Very well. He died nearly two minutes after he was supposed to die, and not only that, but he's refusing to come until his death is investigated, as he was intended to deliver some message. Actually, he was under the impression he was to deliver a message, but his life was to end, just as it did, only two minutes prior."

"So why are you here, and what is his message?"

"If only I could tell you that, but that would break more rules than I have already done, and thus, I cannot help you."

"But you can show me things?"

"Yes." Tony nodded. "I can show you nearly everything."

"Nearly?"

"If I show you the exact cause of death and where he fell from, his death will be solved, and I will certainly be detained from my…" Tony paused, cocking his head to the side. "I need to go see the Sandman."

"Death needs to go see the Sandman?"

"I'm not Death. I'm merely his apprentice, and yes, I need to go see the Sandman."

"Should I ask why?"

"Dinner." Tony winked. "I'm hoping I can cure his narcolepsy long enough to make it to dessert."

"The Sandman is narcoleptic?"

"How do you think he got the job? He was so tired, that Death had fun watching him, and decided to grant him a job in the afterlife. His job is to spread his sleepiness to everyone he can."

"Spread his sleepiness." Gibbs scoffed. "You don't really mean that."

"Oh, I do!" Tony nodded solemnly. "Have you ever become so tired you weren't able to stay awake, and yet you hadn't done anything?"

"Yes."

"That means you got a visit from Gaspar."

"Gaspar?"

"Gaspar Oswyn, who you know as the Sandman."

"Hey, Boss!" Tim called to his oddly behaving leader. "Why are you talking to yourself? Are you sure you're ok?"

"I'm fine, McGee!" Gibbs called back to his second in command. "Are you sure you can't see this guy?"

"Are you sure you had your coffee?" Tim accepted the gun pointed at his head as an acceptable answer, merely because Gibbs had not pulled the trigger. Had he not had his daily ration of coffee, Timothy McGee would have undoubtedly ended up as Stan Burley, who had been Gibbs' previous 2IC. Of course, it was widely believed that Stan was serving as agent afloat, but that was simply a story to protect the legend surrounding Gibbs. After all, only an insane man would commit murder and not be protected by the paper shrouds of a politician. No one, it seemed, wanted to call Gibbs insane.

While the mental stability of a specific NCIS agent was debated, another man was in the throes of debating his own. Were he not so busy quantifying his life in various categories, he may have noticed the steamroller headed for him. However, as neither he nor the driver of the rather large piece of machinery were aware of their surroundings, the man was killed in a rather gruesome fashion. His death caused a slight ripple in the fabric of time, and as quickly as Tony had appeared to Gibbs, the sun-kissed-Death's-apprentice disappeared. It should be mentioned that this particular man has nothing to do with our story but to amuse us and point out a rather obnoxious plot point, and that is Tony's ability to appear and disappear at will, as well as his unerring need to perform his job. As it stands, his typical time to chat is less than five minutes, but there are times when even death takes a holiday. However, that rarely happens when Death IS on holiday.

Despite our previous variance from the story, we must once more trudge into the dreariness of intentional murder and the scoundrels who do it.

Much closer to the crime scene, or what was acknowledged as the crime scene, but was indeed simply the stopping point of one Sir Marmaduke Hathaway, who was on loan from the Royal Navy. (It was doubtful at this time that his former employers would want him back, as his usefulness seemed to have come to an end.) Closer to the scene than the unfortunate man with the steamroller, another man paced in his small apartment.

Beau Lolo was understandably upset. Not only had he forgotten that to commit the perfect crime, you need to leave no evidence behind, but he'd also forgotten to grab Sir Marmaduke's back-pack before shoving him ever so politely out of the airplane's door. His fingerprints were on the bag, good old Smarmy, and probably the car the man landed on, if he knew his luck.

Deep in the bowels of NCIS, which are not, in fact, bowels, but the basement levels where there are no windows, Ducky was unloading his most recent guest onto a table. Ducky, I'm sure, was grateful that he did not work in literal bowels, as he was surrounded by odd smells as it was, and to have literal intestinal parasites lurking about him, would have made his job uncomfortable to say the least.

"I'm telling you, Ducky, he was acting weird. He's been talking to someone who's not there, and the conversation sounded… strange. Can you maybe make him take some time off?"

"I saw him speaking to someone, or at least acting like he was." Ducky nodded. "I have, in my time, had apparitions appear to me, and some of them are rather amusing. It is possible that Jethro has had a visit of that nature."

"Oh, for Pete's sake." Tim threw up his hands. "Do you really expect me to believe those stories about how the dimensions get flipped and twisted for some magical creatures?"

"Every story has some basis in fact, Timothy."

"Sure, in factual fairy tales." The young agent growled as he left.

"What's his problem?" Gibbs was coming in, and had received the first glare McGee was ever brave enough to successfully manage.

"He's concerned for you, Jethro."

"Have no fear, for Sir Marmaduke is here!" The body on the table suddenly spoke, looking straight at Gibbs. The silver-haired man jumped, spilling his coffee.

"What the…"

"Don't say that word, Gibbs." Tony stood next to the re-non-animated Hathaway, a large smile pasted on his features.

"Anthony, my boy." Ducky sounded exasperated. "Is it possible for you to visit my morgue and not cause problems?"

"Of course not." Tony shook his head emphatically. "You know that I'm not of the disposition to allow…"

"You know what your employer threatened the last time you caused problems." Ducky's grave tone of voice belied the levity in his eyes.

"Yes, yes, I know. I'd have to sit here all day and listen to your stories. Would you really do that? I mean, can you really talk all day and not be quiet for a moment?"

"Indeed I can, as can you. In fact, I do believe you are better at talking than I."

"You wound me, Sir."

"I'm gonna wound both of you if one of you doesn't make sense of this for me!" Gibbs thundered.

"You can't wound me." Tony looked at his watch. "Oops, gotta run. I have a collection in a back alley. Some poor politician didn't get his way, and her lackey is taking the fall. Literally."

"Taking the fall?" Gibbs shot a glance to Ducky. "Does he mean…"

"The Fates get bored, Jethro, and begin to play the game we know as Rock, Paper, Scissors. Only they play it with Fall, Knife, Poison. It's quite simple, really."

"So he really is Death's apprentice?"

"Oh, yes." Ducky nodded. "I met Death several years ago at a trade show, well, it was a trade show for those of us intrigued by death, and while he was picky about who he spent time with, he was quite a pleasant, if not sarcastic fellow."

"And how did you fall into Death's favor?"

"I was talking to one of the bodies on display, just as I typically do, and he offered me the opportunity to ask the man how he actually died, rather than just surmising."

"Did you do it?"

"Of course!" Ducky nodded. "The man was suffocated, just as I had suspected, but what I had not expected was his lengthy diatribe on the evils of marriage and menopause. It seemed his wife took an exception to his snoring."

"So where does Tony come in?"

"He was orphaned at a young age, and sought out Death to make a deal with the specter that stole his parents. Instead, Death took a liking to him and allowed him to stick around."

"How long ago was that?"

"If I recall correctly, Anthony's parents were killed in the French Revolution. His real name is Antonio something, but I can never remember it correctly. His family was visiting from Italy when everything happened, and with their standing as royals in their own homeland, well, let's just say that the rebels were a bit zealous in ferreting out the aristocracy."

"So he's been killing people for a few hundred years? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Oh, he's not permitted to kill, only collect. He is only an apprentice, after all."

"So how many Deaths are there?"

"Oh, only the one, and he'll never fully retire. Death can't die, you see. But he does like to play golf."

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Gibbs felt the soothing effects of his last cup of coffee, not the one he'd spilled, of course, but the cup before that, begin to wear off.

"Jethro, might I suggest that the next time you see Anthony, you simply ask him what you wish to know."

"He said he can't tell me."

"Poppycock. Anthony always tells. Just give him a donut. He'll tell you anything for sugar."

Gibbs stormed out of the morgue, intent on sniffing out another cup of coffee. As he stood in line, his eyes fell on the wickedest, gooiest treat he'd ever seen. Chocolate icing dripped from its edges while macaroons dotted the top, with curls of white chocolate finished the decorations. The man he wanted to tempt was as close to immortal as possible, so the hardening of his arteries wasn't something Gibbs found himself particularly concerned with.

Packed with his recently purchased "weapon", Gibbs reentered NCIS and sat at his desk, waiting for the arrival of his personal poltergeist. He'd be ready when the man next appeared. Nearly six hours and several salivating, jealous agents later, Gibbs got his wish.

"Hello once again. You changed your shirt, I see."

"No thanks to you." Gibbs glowered at his "invisible" guest. "Now, I have a present for you, but only if you answer a few questions."

"Presents? Oh, I like presents." Tony grinned. "But I'm not allowed to take anything back to the…" he stopped short as Gibbs pulled the torte from its box. His eyes followed the pastry as Gibbs slowly waved it back and forth. "Are those macadamia nuts?"

"Yep, and the gooey stuff in the middle is raspberry, I'm told."

"Ooh." Tony licked his lips. "I'm not supposed to accept gifts."

"In that case." Gibbs shrugged and put the pastry back into the box.

"What do you want for it?"

"Information."

"What sort of information?"

"The kind that can only be bought with flour, eggs, chocolate, nuts, and icing."

"You want what I know, don't you?"

"I certainly won't be eating this."

"Oh, you are a cruel task master."

"Not at all." Gibbs smirked. "This is all for you if you tell me what I want to know."

"He was pushed from the plane by a man whose prints are on the underside of the bag. The poor idiot forgot he was supposed to get the bag before pushing him out of the plane. The height was 2,500 feet, and Smarmy fell at terminal velocity, which is how he ended up going head first through the roof of that car." Tony took a deep breath. "That's all I can tell you, but that should help you solve the case."

"Ah-ah-ah." Gibbs pulled the pastry back a bit. "What was the number on the plane?"

"The registration?" Tony's eyes were once more following the gently swaying treat. "Um, I believe it was RI12XD0035."

"Is that all you have for me?"

"Yes." Tony's breath was labored. "That's all I know. Please, just give me the…" A bell chimed, and the younger man groaned in frustration. "I will be back for that." He disappeared.

Across town, a young thug was robbed of the chance to cheat Death by the specter himself. He looked at his young apprentice with barely concealed mirth.

"Have you been a naughty boy, Anthony?"

"Of course." Tony smiled. "Like you'd expect anything else of me, Master."

"After nearly 200 years, I would be worried if you did behave."

"I always behave." Tony sulked.

"Yes, but you often forget that most people, of which you still are, refer to behaving as having good behavior, rather than bad. Were you alive today, there is no doubt that you'd be a politician."

"Think I'd be any good?"

"Among the best."

"Thank you, Master." Tony beamed under the praise. "I, um, left something…"

"In the possession of Leroy Jethro Gibbs." Death nodded sagely. "Yes, you did." The cloaked being began to fade. "Be a good lad and save me a bite, will you?"

"Save you a bite! You don't have a stomach or taste buds!"

"No, I suppose I don't." Death looked down at his reformed skeleton. "Save me a bit, anyway."

"Why?"

"Because I want to watch you squirm for the next decade as it sits on my shelf."

"You're cruel."

"I'm Death. Did you expect a Carnival? After all, the Dark Ages were my idea."

As Tony and Death stood discussing the social benefits of widespread plagues and poor sanitation, Gibbs and his team were looking over facts, data, and waiting for the finished finger print analysis.

"Why don't you take a nap, Gibbs?" Kate spoke to her employer for the first time that day. "You've been a little off all day, and…"

"And nothing." Gibbs glared at her. "Why don't you go hurry Abby along."

"What, in this imaginary evidence?" She glared at him for a second, just as Tim's computer dinged.

"How did you know this, Boss?" The younger man looked over at their leader. "The plane in question, according to the flight manifesto, left with four passengers, arrived with three, made no stops in between, but did have a severe dip in altitude, and that dip could have been when Hawthorne was tossed from the plane."

"My imagination." Gibbs snorted. "Kate, go tell Abby that I'm only interested in the prints from the bottom of that danged pack."

"Yes, Boss." She scooted quickly past the now-frightening man.

Down in the lab, the confusion escalated into near-panic that would have had the two women calling for a priest and a few sticks to start a fire had they been back in the Dark Ages that Death had so enjoyed. Every item that Gibbs had insisted would hold proof was indeed showing its secrets, and the two women became more convinced than ever of their boss' supernatural powers.

A few phone calls, a BOLO that revealed the location of Beau Lolo, and Gibbs and company were sitting back in the bullpen finishing up reports.

"So, Boss, you ever gonna eat that thing?"

"Nope."

"Why buy it if you're not gonna eat it?"

"Because I want it, McStupid." Tony suddenly appeared at Gibbs' side. "Was I right?"

"About everything."

"May I?" He pointed hopefully to the box.

"Certainly." The older man held back laughter as the cake seemed to levitate from the box, and part of it disappeared as Tony took a large bite.

"Oh, this is heaven."

"There's more where that came from." Gibbs sat back.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." A satisfied smirk crossed his features. "You pass me information, and I'll pass you pastries."

"It's a deal."

"Oh, dear." A new voice sounded in Gibbs ear, and he turned to face Death. "I was afraid you'd do something like this."

"What?" Tony had a hunk of chocolate hanging on his chin. "I'm allowed goodies."

"Yes, you are, but don't make his job too easy."

"Why?"

"Because I'm meant to collect him in a few years. If you make him too successful, he'll go on living well past his time, as I'll not have the heart to take him." Death disappeared.

"So, Gibbs, how do you feel about living for a long, long, long time?"

"How do you feel about earning a goodie every time we get a case?"

"Consider me obese." With an easy smile, the young man disappeared, taking the rest of the cake, which had been hovering, partially eaten, for several minutes.

"Boss, um…" Tim hunted for words. "Um, what just happened?"

"Why? Something strange happen?"

"The cake?"

"It was good."

"You didn't eat it."

"Yes, I did."

"No, you didn't." Tim gulped. "It was hovering."

"You need to get some sleep, McGee."

"Yeah. Ok." Tim stood up. "I'm going to go home now."

Rich laughter followed him to the elevators, and once he'd gone, Tony and Death reappeared at Gibbs desk. The silver-haired agent looked up.

"Yes?"

"Do try to keep your agents in line, Jethro." Death spoke as if bored. "Stan is a constant trial, so I can only imagine what the rest of them are like. I'd really rather not have them around for a while."

"Sure." Gibbs smiled. "I can do that. How long do I have left?"

"I'm not sure." Death shrugged. "I only check on the souls about to leave."

"That's a relief." Gibbs sat back. "So what can I do for you?"

"Don't let him talk you into too many pizzas, please. He gets rather gassy with the cheese."

"DEATH!" Tony's eyes flew wide. "I do not!"

"Indeed, he does not, but what sort of creature would I be if I allowed him every comfort? He can have pizza only after every 60 murders." He pointed to Tony. "And no more murders committed by you, young man. You had enough fun during the two world wars."

With that, Death disappeared, and a strange friendship was birthed. Anthony, Tony, the "young" apprentice to Death, and Leroy Jethro Gibbs formed a partnership to raise Jethro's crime solving rate up to near perfection. When asked how he succeeded, Gibbs merely smiled and said he kept a healthy supply of donuts on hand, but no one understood his answer, but Death was pleasantly surprised by the increase of new arrivals due to the overindulgence of fat and carbohydrates.


End file.
